


when soft hearts that can't sit still

by Order_Of_The_Forks



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: M/M, This is very strange, Tooth Rotting Fluff, and the quote at the beginning, snufkin gets hit on, title from the wailin' jennys- mona louise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:56:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Order_Of_The_Forks/pseuds/Order_Of_The_Forks
Summary: Snufkin sang his way from town to town and every song he sang, he sang not for the world to hear, but for one friend deep in the mountains.





	when soft hearts that can't sit still

“I’ll sing loud enough to go through the mountains to you.”

That’s what Snufkin had told Moomintroll right before he left.

They had been sitting on the little bridge, and Snufkin was playing his guitar. 

And Moomin had said how sad he was that he wouldn’t be able to hear him sing until next spring.

So in a burst of impulsivity Snufkin had put down his guitar and took Moomin’s hands in his own and said that whenever he sang all winter, he would sing loud enough for Moomin to hear him, even in his sleep.

And Moomin had turned very red and his eyes glittered with tears and Snufkin would rather die than see him cry, so he picked his guitar back up and didn’t look up until he could hear Moomin’s footsteps walking away from him and the door to Moominhouse creak shut.

Snufkin wasn’t one for vanities and shallow compliments. So when people told him he had a good voice, he fought them. It didn’t matter if it was good or not, but it did its job, and it had gotten Snufkin out of enough scrapes.

If he was being honest, his singing was the only thing that kept him alive during the winter months. He had plenty to get by on in his own little pack, but there were necessities that sometimes, one simply could not put in a satchel or carry on a back.

He had a voice strong enough to convince any sailor that he was worth passage on his ship, as long as long nights of shanties were in order.

He had a voice sweet enough to coax any matron or innkeeper into offering some spare scraps of food for such a nice young man.

And he had a voice mournful enough that when he sang for groups of vagabonds and travelers, he was instantly accepted into the pack, at least for as long as the caravan would take him. 

So he sang his way from town to town and every song he sang, he sang not for the world to hear, but for one friend deep in the mountains.

And although he did not know, every time Snufkin opened his mouth to sing, Moomin turned over in his sleep to face the winter sun shining through his window and smiled.

There was a town, maybe a month or so from Moominvalley. Snufkin had passed through the town a few times over the years. It was small, the buildings were old-looking and everything seemed sepia-toned. It was always hot and dry in that town, and it had been one of those rare days when Snufkin was forced to shed his jacket or die of overheating. He had been sitting on the porch of a tavern, seeking shelter from the baking sun, feeling exposed in his linen shirt and vest, when a young woman of an indeterminate species struck up conversation. At first, he tried to deny the engagement, hoping that if he kept fiddling with his guitar strings and not meeting her piercing gaze, she would go away.

But she didn’t. She took refuge in the chair opposite Snufkin’s, taking out a dainty lace fan and beginning to fan herself coquettishly. 

“You’re a very good singer,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very handsome.”

Snufkin was off-put, but he was polite, at least. “Thank you.”

“Where are you from?” She asked. Her voice was breathy and high, and something in it reminded Snufkin of Snorkmaiden. 

“Oh, you know,” Snufkin said vaguely, “up north.”

“And have you got a girl?” The woman prodded. “Up north?”

Snufkin sighed and put away his guitar, resigning himself to a conversation that he did not want to have. “No.”

A large grin split across the woman’s face. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“Snufkin.”

“Mine’s Adoris.” She took a beat, and Snufkin was overly eager to assume that this was the end of the conversation. Just as he had reached for his guitar again, the woman- Adoris- said, “say, how long are you in town for, Sufkim?”

Snufkin winced. “Just for tonight.”

Adoris leaned forward in her chair. “Nice tavern, huh? My father owns it. How about we go inside, have a couple of drinks, and make the most of your night here, what do you say?”

Snufkin pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes. “No thank you.”

“What’s the problem?” Adonis asked. She sounded fed up with the whole thing, and Snufkin was inclined to agree. “You said you hadn’t a girl back home.”

“Just because I don’t have ‘a girl,’” Snufkin said slowly, “doesn’t mean there isn’t anybody I love.”

When spring had come that year, Snufkin had returned with an arsenal of stories to share. When he got to the end of that story, Moomin’s eyes had gotten very round and it suddenly became very quiet, until Little My jumped out of the bushes and demanded to know what was going on.

Of all lines to exclude from the story, why did that one not make the final cut?

Because he was a lovesick fool with a hand against his heart and a contrarian mouth, that’s why. 

That’s why he had made that promise to Moomin at the end of fall.

Because he loved being away, but he hated it.

He loved the adventure, the solitude, meeting new people and seeing new places. 

But he hated not being thought of.

Snufkin found that he enjoyed the thought of someone thinking of him back in Moominvalley.

There was once a time when he would’ve hated to be at the forefront of someone’s mind. But things had changed.

Snufkin had changed.

Over the years, he had grown wirier and tufts of fur had begun to grow around his chin, and he knew that in a few years, if he didn’t look out, he would have a thick, matted beard like his father.

He hoped his little jackknife would be suitable for shaving, but there would almost certainly be a couple dozen cuts and nicks before he knew for sure.

So when he sang, he sang for the passage of time. 

For being on someone’s mind.

And he was sure that the North Wind would be kind and carry his tune all the way back to Moominvalley.

Moominvalley, where everything was sweetly stagnant.

Where the seasons brought maturity and new ideas but never any change.

The pinnacle of Snufkin’s journey was the peak of the highest mountain he had ever climbed. For three nights he slogged up the side of the thing, and on every step the top of the mountain loomed above him like a beast.

When he reached the top, he could swear he could see Moominvalley from where he stood. 

That night, in front of his campfire, Snufkin took out his guitar and when he sang, he could hear the melody echo throughout the rocks and knolls. 

That was the end of his journey, he decided. 

The trip down was much easier than going up.

He found a caravan going North, and he sat on the back of a covered wagon and played his harmonica every day he spent with them. 

One hot day, Snufkin could see a familiar markingpost and, without telling anyone, hopped off the back of the wagon and walked into town. He sat down at that same tavern as before and began to play.

It was a scorching hot day, and Snufkin was once more forced to take off his jacket. No women accosted him, and Snufkin took his leave and found a small pond behind a decrepit wooden chapel. He took off his shoes and let his feet soak in the water, cool and clean from the rain. 

Just when he had thought he was safe, he could hear the footsteps of someone else coming up behind him.

“Sorry,” he began, gathering his things to go, “I’ll leave.”

“No, you’re fine.” The voice was gentle, and Snufkin was inclined to stay. Even if just to cool down a little more.

The stranger sat down next to Snufkin, following his lead by putting their feet in the water.

“I’m Tushka,” they said. “What’s your name?”

“Snufkin,” he answered, not one to be impolite. He wasn’t quite in the mood for a conversation, though. “Before you ask, I… do have… a girl back home.”

Tushka laughed. “So have I.”

Snufkin found himself smiling in spite of himself.

There was calm silence for a while. 

Snufkin leaned back on the grass, pulling his hat down over his face. 

It was almost like being back in Moominvalley.

Without thinking, Snufkin blurted, “I lied.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend at home.” Snufkin’s mouth was running on its own terms. “But I do have a Moomin, and I think that’s just right for me.”

Tushka laughed, and it was like the falling of snow. “What’s this Moomin like?”

There wasn’t a single word that Snufkin knew that could wholly sum up the love he felt for his friend. So he settled on a lackluster, “amazing.”

“Well, I hope you see your Moomin soon.”

“I plan to,” Snufkin said, pulling his boots on. “I plan on seeing him on the first day of Spring.”

Tushka grinned. “Best of luck.”

“Thank you.”

Snufkin decided to head back that very day, on foot, just seeing how far his legs could carry him.

Turns out, they took him all the way back to Moominvalley.

And as Snufkin sat on the little bridge and played Moomin’s favorite song, he knew that every note he had ever sang had made it back. In fact, he could still hear them echoing in the trees. 

That night, after dinner, Moomin and Snufkin journeyed out to the ocean. It was still cold, so they just sat on the beach and talked.

But mostly they sat in silence, enjoying each others’ company.

Snufkin watched the stars slowly begin to light up the sky. 

“Snufkin?” Moomin said very quietly and very suddenly.

“Yes?”

“A few years ago, you told me a story about a woman you met in a town during the winter. Remember?”

Oh, he remembered.

Snufkin turned to look at Moomin, who was still looking at the sky. His eyes were star-spangled and gleaming.

“I remember.”

“You said. At the end of the story. That there was someone you loved.”

Snufkin could feel his heart slowly sink out of his chest and directly into the sand. “Yes, I suppose I did say that.”

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

There was a long silence.

Finally, Moomin tore his eyes away from the sky, and they seemed to be boring deep into Snufkin’s brain. “Am I the one you love?”

The night air was cold, still tinged with winter. 

Snufkin wanted to put his hat over his face and never emerge, but he somehow couldn’t look away.

“Yes, you are.”

Moomin grinned, his face a deep red. “I love you too, Snufkin.”

For once, Snufkin couldn’t think of anything good to say.

So for a very long time, they lay on the sand quietly, soaking in the beauty of the night.

“Could you hear me when I sang?” Snufkin said at long last. “I sang a lot.”

Moomin laughed. “Every song.”

**Author's Note:**

> hi thanks for reading  
> please comment i crave


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